Koro's body lay limp on the cold tile, his head blown open like a cracked egg, half his skull scattered in jagged shards. His blood—dark, almost black in the neon lighting—pooled beneath him in a lazy, spreading puddle. Bits of brain matter clung to his fur, pink and wet and twitching with the last remnants of a dying nerve.
"Jesus," one of the cleanup crew muttered behind a mask, holding a spray canister like a weapon. "You would think they would atleast wait for the blood to stop pumping."
"They never wait," another said, kneeling with a stiff cloth and industrial gloves already soaked in crimson. "Orders are orders. Test subject or recruiter—it's all the same to them in the end."
The two worked in practiced silence after that. Gloves slapped against flesh, pressing the body flat, carefully folding the limbs inward. Koro's eyes—one wide open, the other reduced to pulp—stared up at the lab lights, reflecting their sick white glow. The tech in charge gave a grunt of approval before motioning to the hover cart nearby.
With a heavy metallic clank, they dropped the dog's body into the steel tray. The sound echoed too loud in the room, like a final punctuation mark.
"Get him to Disposal."
They wheeled him past glass tanks filled with things that moved but shouldn't. Bodies suspended in glowing blue fluid. Some human. Others... not quite. The hallway narrowed, and the walls became less pristine. Scratches on the metal. Stains they didn't bother to clean. The air grew heavier. Hotter.
And the smell—oh god, the smell.
The closer they got to the incineration chamber, the stronger it became. Not just smoke. Not just fire. But flesh. Singed hair. Boiled blood. A nauseating cocktail of death.
The chamber door hissed open with a press of a button. The flames inside roared, licking the air like they were hungry—no, starving.
"ID 0046-K. Recruiter asset. Terminated."
The handler's voice was emotionless as he logged the disposal.
They shoved the tray forward. Koro's body slid inside like discarded trash. One paw dangled off the side for a second before curling inward, stiff from rigor mortis. The door shut with a hiss.
And then came the burn.
Flames consumed him instantly. Fur curled and shriveled, popping off the skin in greasy black clumps. His body twitched once in the heat, as though protesting even in death. The scent of burning flesh was thick, oily, sickening. Fat melted and hissed on contact with the metal. The crew didn't flinch. They'd seen worse. Smelled worse. Maybe even done worse.
After a few minutes, all that remained was black ash and a faint echo of something that had once been alive.
"Chamber clean. Cycle complete," the AI chimed in that same lifeless, too-cheerful tone. The mechanical whirr of the system shutting down echoed through the chamber like a sigh of finality.
One of the cleanup crew—a guy with sharp cheekbones and tired, glazed-over eyes—turned his head toward the now-empty cremation pod. Flames had died down, but the scorched scent still hung heavy, acidic and nauseating.
He took off his face shield, wiping at the fog on the inside with the back of his glove. "Poor bastard," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. There was no answer from his partner, just a grunt and the clatter of metal tongs being dumped back into the disinfectant tray.
They worked in silence, as always. Efficient, desensitized, cold. The long, narrow corridor outside the chamber buzzed faintly, the overhead fluorescent lights flickering now and again like they were struggling to stay alive. The walls were a sterile gray, with thick black pipes curling along the ceiling like the veins of some industrial beast.
Even here, deep beneath the Academy's pristine upper halls, the rot was loud.
A conveyor belt nearby clicked on with a hollow clunk, and from the wall, a new body bag rolled into view. The plastic was thick and foggy, but the silhouette inside was unmistakably humanoid.
The AI's voice rang out again, unbothered by the smell or silence.
"Next specimen for disposal: Subject K-047."
Another?
The man with the tired eyes stiffened, his gaze snapping to the new bag. "Shit," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "Didn't even make it past orientation."
His partner grunted again, already walking toward the bag and pulling it onto a gurney with a heavy thud. It slumped like a sack of wet sand.
"Name?" he asked.
The screen above flickered and blinked.
"K-047. Formerly known as Ethan Tao. Transferred from Eastern district. Death: Failed psychic initiation—brain liquefaction."
"Classic." The man snorted. "They keep pushing kids like this through the grinder like they're nothing but data points."
His partner rolled the gurney forward, the wheels squeaking faintly under the weight. They passed by a window—thick glass, reinforced, stained faintly red. Outside was nothing but a steep drop into more facility corridors, most of which were unused or sealed.
Inside the disposal chamber, the heating cycle was still warm, glowing a dull orange. They opened the lid, the heat brushing against their suits, dry and sharp.
Without ceremony, they dumped Ethan Tao in.
A faint crunch.
The AI began its cycle again, now far too familiar.
"Initiating Bio-Cycle 4.3: Organic Waste Neutralization in progress."
The lid sealed, hissing tight. Flames sparked beneath the pod, licking at the corners before roaring to life. The bag sizzled, plastic melting into muscle, heat curling up the remains until they split apart.
No prayers. No name. No legacy.
Just K-047. And before that, Koro. And before that, someone else.
A boy. A girl. A creature. A test.
All the same in the end.
Back in the corridor, the cleanup crew walked out, boots sticky from ash and fluids, no words exchanged.
The hallway swallowed them again, just as it had dozens before them.